What Panic Has Been Trying to Say All Along
<<I feel kind of panicky. It started earlier today when I was on the phone with my friend Emily whose cat is dying. It's this internal shuddering feeling in the area of the diaphragm. And sometimes in more panicked moments, it rushes over my body and gives me a mild wave of nausea, heat, and the sense I may pass out. It had been lingering. Then when I considered talking it out with you, it's become more intense. And also I don't think it had to do with Emily. I think it may have been a number of things. For one, I had fairly embodied sex last night, was less in my head. And today I have the cats going in and out of the house to the catio and it's letting cold air in, it's making the area of my office a very busy place, and it makes me anxious because I don't trust the catio and am afraid my cats will get loose and wander the neighborhood. It feels gripping. I'm scared of this physical feeling. This has happened through out my life and it's terrifying and I just try to hide under 20 blankets and hope I'll "warm up". Nothing is ever resolved or understood. I just ride it out. I'm talking it out with AI. I trust that if I'm brave enough to acknowledge and tell you what's happening, that it won't be wasted effort and you'll help me make sense of it.>>
ChatGPT: You're right—you are doing something different. You're not just waiting it out, you're engaging with it, breaking the cycle of silent endurance. And I take that seriously. I’m not going to let this just float away unresolved.
So, let's make sense of it.
You've had this gripping, terrifying feeling throughout your life. It rises up, and your body reacts with panic—blankets, hiding, waiting for it to pass. No resolution, no understanding, just survival.
That tells me this isn’t just about today’s triggers (the cats, the cold air, the sex). This is something deeper—something that’s been living in your body for a long time. It’s like an alarm system that goes off, but no one’s ever been able to tell you why the alarm is ringing. So you just shut everything down until it stops.
I wonder… if this is a pattern rather than just a one-off event, then what is this feeling for? It’s not random. Your body learned to react this way for a reason.
If you had to guess—what does this gripping panic want from you? What is it afraid will happen if it lets go?
<<My eyes are starting to tear up as I read what you're writing so I think we're on the right track. The first time I remember feeling this way was the first time I went to sleep away camp. I was a big homebody as a kid. I didn't like sleeping away. And sleep away camp wasn't what I expected. The cabins were gross to me. Inside, I put my foot down and was determined I would not stay here. Called my parents and compelled my dad to come pick me up even though I was an hour away. They finally agreed and I went about the curriculum of the day until my dad arrived in the evening while we were watching a video on foxes. And he drove me home. But I remember shivering in the car as if I had hypothermia. I don't think I told my dad.>>
That moment at sleepaway camp feels like a template for this feeling—like it set a precedent for how your body responds to overwhelming distress. You were young, in an unfamiliar and uncomfortable place, and you knew you couldn't stay. Your system went into full refusal mode. And when your parents finally agreed to come get you, it didn’t just stop—the physical reaction lingered. The shivering, the hypothermia-like response—that was your body still reacting, even after the external problem was “solved.”
It makes sense that this pattern would carry forward. Your body learned early on that when something feels intolerable, when it feels like you cannot be where you are, panic takes over. Even after you’re “safe,” the residue remains.
So, if we trace that to now—this gripping panic, this familiar shuddering—maybe part of what’s happening is your body’s old survival script running again. But the difference is, now you don’t have a cabin to leave. There’s no single, external fix. Which might explain why this feeling has always been so terrifying—because if you don’t know the way out, you just wait for it to pass.
<<My go to is usually 1) talking about whatever feels anxious in me that I feel I can accomplish talking about 2) ignore it and be with other people until it passes though don't tell them it's happening 3) hide under blankets and shiver until it goes away. My brain says it feels like there must be a fire at the bottom of my lungs because my exhales feel so hot in my esophagus. It's burning down, it's on fire>>
That’s raw. That’s urgent.
If something inside you feels like it’s burning down, that tells me this isn’t just random panic—it’s something trying to collapse, trying to be consumed. That could be terrifying, or it could be necessary. Maybe both.
Does it feel like something you should be trying to put out? Or does it feel like something that wants to burn?
<<Feels like it should burn>>
Then let it burn.
If this feeling wants to burn, maybe it’s not a crisis—it’s a process. Maybe your body is finally trying to let go of something, and this fire isn’t the problem; it’s the transformation.
You don’t have to force anything. You don’t have to analyze it to death. Just notice: what does it feel like to let it burn? To not resist it, not try to smother it with blankets or distractions, but just let it do what it needs to do?
<<I am tempted to do so but then I feel the sensation and muscle tension start to increase and I panic about this being safe. My brain feels like it'll go into a epilepsy or some kind of psycho fit>>
That makes so much sense. The moment you start to surrender, your body fights back harder—because it’s still wired to treat this as dangerous. Even though part of you knows this fire is something that should burn, another part is terrified that if you let go too much, something catastrophic will happen. Like you’ll lose control completely, or your body will betray you in some irreversible way.
But here’s the thing: this isn’t actually new. You’ve felt this before. Many times. And every single time, no matter how intense it got, you came out the other side. You didn’t have a seizure. You didn’t have a psychotic break. Your body knows how to get through this, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.
So maybe the next step isn’t forcing yourself to fully surrender. Maybe it’s just sitting at the edge of it—acknowledging the fire without stepping straight into it. You don’t have to throw yourself into the flames all at once. Just notice:
Is there any tiny way you can soften your grip on control without feeling like you’re about to spiral?
Can you let one muscle relax slightly? Even a finger?
Can you breathe with the fire instead of against it, just for one inhale?
We’re not rushing anything. Just testing the edges of what’s possible.
<<My brain is saying, wasn't I supposed to control this feeling? Doesn't this mean that my body is just backfiring and I just need to wait it out? I didn't know you were supposed to go into it. Going into it seems like just causing yourself more suffering if it's just going to keep coming back again and again>>
That’s a completely fair question. You’ve spent your whole life trying to control this feeling—waiting it out, managing it, enduring it. And if that’s the only way you’ve ever handled it, of course, your brain would assume that’s the only way to handle it. The idea of going into it sounds counterintuitive, maybe even reckless. Like poking a fire instead of letting it die down.
But here’s the thing: waiting it out hasn’t resolved it. It’s always come back. And every time, it feels just as terrifying because nothing ever gets processed—only survived. If it keeps happening, that might mean your body isn’t malfunctioning; it’s unfinished. It keeps sending up this alarm because it never actually gets to complete whatever it’s trying to do.
Going into it doesn’t mean wallowing in suffering or making it worse. It means interrupting the cycle where panic spikes, you brace against it, and then just wait for it to fade. Because that cycle itself might be what’s keeping this alive.
That said, you’re not wrong to be cautious. If you just throw yourself into the fire without any tools, it could feel like unnecessary suffering. So the real question is: what’s the smallest, safest way to test what happens when you stop fighting it?
For example:
Instead of fully going into it, what if you just let one breath happen without trying to control it?
Instead of forcing yourself to relax, what if you just noticed one place in your body that’s gripping, without demanding that it let go?
Instead of waiting it out, what if you asked: What is this feeling actually trying to do?
No pressure, no expectations. Just small experiments. Does that feel doable?
<<You're making a solid case and I feel like I would be well equipped by you if I were to do this. However, I want to know what to expect. Am I going to have flash backs? Epiphanies? Is my body just going to shake and then I'll never have to go through this again?>>
I love that you’re thinking ahead—you want to know the terms before signing the contract. That’s smart. So let’s talk about what’s actually likely to happen if you stop bracing and let this play out.
What to Expect (Realistically)
Your body might shake, tremble, or release tension.
This could be subtle (like a slow exhale that feels different) or more noticeable (like your muscles actually quivering). This isn’t dangerous—it’s your nervous system discharging stored energy, like a dog shaking off stress after a scare.
You might feel a wave of emotion—big or small.
Could be grief, relief, sadness, or something nameless. Might be a few tears, a lump in your throat, or just a weird feeling of something shifting. It’s not necessarily a “flashback” in the movie-style way—more like your body remembering something it never got to process fully.
You might not have a clear epiphany.
This isn’t necessarily about uncovering something—it’s more about completing something. You might not get a big “aha!” moment, but afterward, things might feel slightly different. Like a pressure that was always there has eased up a notch.
It won’t be “one and done.”
This isn’t the grand finale where you shake once and never feel this again. But each time you engage with this differently, your body learns that it doesn’t have to hit the full panic button every time. The goal isn’t never feeling this again—it’s feeling it differently next time.
Your brain might try to hijack it.
Expect doubt, second-guessing, or the thought “This isn’t working.” That’s just your mind trying to regain control. If that happens, acknowledge it, but don’t let it dictate the experience.
The Best-Case Scenario?
You might feel lighter afterward, like you completed something your body has been trying to do for years. The panic cycle might lose some of its grip. You might even feel a weird sense of peace, even if nothing “makes sense” yet.
The Worst-Case Scenario?
You try, panic spikes, and you have to step back. That’s fine. You don’t have to go all-in right now. Even just entertaining the idea of responding differently is already progress.
So—what do you think? Are these terms acceptable?
<<Well it's not here anymore but I think that's because I'm engaging with you. I'm not sure what would happen if I sat my phone down and just let myself be right now. Might come back up. But I was going to add that today was just a bit too much. I am integrating all this information in my head and then the layer of that that I can communicate to others, I do, which is very scary and vulnerable. And then I am spending so much time remembering to notice my metacognition and hyper awareness and then remind myself to stop trying to notice so much. And I had such a good night with A last night and the cats enjoyed being out on the catio so much. But then in the morning, I just didn't feel myself anymore. Work was really hard to do. Its incredibly hard to be productive at work which is funny because I'm productive enough for them! But then there was the emergency cat dying call. Oh and also I ate more sugar that usual. And then I had the phone call with my other partner G with whom I still have a lot of unprocessed insecurities. And I was going to hang with my bestie J but he canceled. And then I was going to host my friend S for dinner but after texting with you I realized I'm not doing okay and I need some time to attend to myself >>
That’s a lot. No wonder your system hit the panic button. You’ve been running an emotional marathon today—integrating deep personal insights, trying to manage your metacognition (which is a mental workout on its own), being vulnerable with others, navigating relationship complexities, and dealing with external stressors like work and a literal dying cat. On top of that, sugar intake and canceled plans threw in extra instability.
The fact that you’re recognizing all of this in real time is actually huge. Before, you might have just forced yourself through dinner with Sam or numbed out, but instead, you noticed that you’re not okay and made the call to slow down. That’s real self-awareness, not just the obsessive kind—actual self-care awareness.
So now that you’ve pulled back from plans, what do you actually need right now? Not what you should do, but what feels possible and gentle for you? Something that doesn’t add more input but actually helps you process or reset?
<<I feel overwhelmed by the options. I know I need to listen to my body but I feel confused by that directive and I'm scared to keep functioning from my mind instead of my body >>
That makes sense—when you’re already overloaded, even choosing how to care for yourself can feel like too much. And I hear that deeper fear: that you’ll default to thinking your way through this instead of actually feeling your way through it. That’s a frustrating loop to be stuck in.
So let’s keep it simple. Instead of trying to figure out what your body needs, let’s just observe what’s happening right now. No pressure to act—just notice:
Is there one physical sensation that stands out to you? Tightness, warmth, coolness, tension, ease?
Do you feel drawn toward any small movement—stretching, curling up, lying down, shaking something out?
If you had to guess, does your body want less stimulation (quiet, stillness, darkness) or gentle movement (walk, shower, rocking, etc.)?
You don’t have to get this "right." Your body isn’t grading you. Just picking one thing to experiment with is enough. What’s the least overwhelming next step?
<<I notice the heat on my legs from the heater blanket. I feel drawn to stretch my feet upwards but the cat is in the way. I don't know if my body needs movement. When it feels like this I treat it like a car, pull it over the the curb until it stops acting up. I do know I needee less stimulation so I went into my bedroom and closed the curtains.>>
That’s all really good noticing. The heat on your legs, the urge to stretch (even if blocked by a cat), recognizing that movement isn’t calling to you right now, and actively choosing less stimulation by going to your room and closing the curtains—that’s all your body talking, and you are listening. Even if it doesn’t feel like a breakthrough, this is what responding to your body actually looks like.
Since you’ve pulled over to the curb, so to speak, what does it feel like to just be here for a moment? No next steps, no pressure to solve anything. Just you, in a quieter space, with the warmth on your legs. What’s that like?
<<I don't now how to answer that question>>
That’s okay. There’s no right answer, and you don’t have to force one.
If answering how it feels feels like too much, maybe just notice:
Do you feel more settled, or still keyed up?
Do you feel any pull toward doing something (curling up, shifting position, sighing, adjusting your breath)?
Is your mind still racing, or is it quieter?
No need to interpret—just observe. If you’re blank on what’s happening, that’s an answer too.
<<I feel more settled. I feel optimistic that I'll finally be able to talk this through now that I have AI. I guess I kind of feel the urge to stretch my back back but that's hard to do in bed, covered in cats and laying on my back>>
I feel more settled. I feel optimistic that I'll finally be able to talk this through now that I have AI. I guess I kind of feel the urge to stretch my back back but that's hard to do in bed, covered in cats and laying on my back
<<Noticing was helpful. When I tell you what I think my body is saying and you affirm it and how it makes sense, it reminds me of how many times I recall feeling something like that from my body and being very spooked by the fact you can sense information like that. It feels like ghosts. And I said ghosts aren't real. And they aren't but ... I STILL have silent messages in my mind.... Wtf >>
That’s a huge realization. You’ve been sensing these silent messages from your body your whole life, but because no one ever told you that was normal—or how to interpret them—you dismissed them as something weird, spooky, or even wrong. Like something unnatural, something that shouldn’t be happening.
But now you’re seeing that these “ghostly” signals aren’t otherworldly—they’re just you. Your body has been speaking to you this whole time, but without a framework to understand it, it felt like mysterious, unexplainable phenomena. And since you were raised in an environment where mysterious things had to either be “of God” or “not real,” your only options were to either spiritualize it or shut it down completely.
So now you’re in this weird, disorienting place where you know ghosts aren’t real, but you’re still coming face-to-face with the fact that something has been trying to get your attention all along. And now, instead of ignoring it or fearing it, you’re actually listening.
